This Above All
by simplecoffee
Summary: Gen: Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on the crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him. Sixshot plus epilogue; will go from introspection to h/c to utter crack - but then that's what the show did, so it shouldn't be a problem, eh?
1. Chapter 1: Sulu and Chekov

**Rating**: T, I should think. Tell me if it should be any different?

**Word count**: 986 (this chapter)

**Warnings**: Spoilers for _The Return of the Archons, _some language_  
_

**Pairings: **none in this chapter_  
_

**Disclaimer**: Jim? I'd like to own Jim. Yum. =9 However, I slaver in vain.

**Summary: **Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on his crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him.

**General A/N****s:** The lovely Lyricoloratura allowed me to snag the premise of her story 'The Taming of the Crew' (go read it!) and write a TOS version. It ended up morphing into this - hope you like this first part, Lyri (if I may call you that)! :)  
Also, I'm a Shakespeare geek.  
_This Above All _will have six parts and an epilogue, and is currently a work in progress - I hope to update soon.  
The chapters will be in chronological order - which I consider to be the _production_ order of TOS, and _not_ the airdate order. It seems rather more logical that way. ;)

**Specific A/N: **I'm obsessed with this episode (_Archons_). Also, ANGST. Also, from what I have of chapters to come, I think it'll get better. Also, once you've read it, please review? :D *Spock-puppy-eyes*

* * *

"Help me! Help me! _Help _me – " amid the explosions that only made tangible the passion that had caused them, a machine's dying cry.

Stepping in, after the fireworks stopped, to make sure Landru was finally no more.

Knowing that even after all these months of the Enterprise being his, all those away missions gone wrong and implications at least partially dealt with, Beta III and its computer-controlled society would haunt him tonight as he slept – Jim had always had bad dreams; he supposed they came of suppressing everything with an iron will when he was awake.

"If I were you, I'd start looking for another job – " speaking mechanically – oh, the _irony_ – to the Lawgivers-that-weren't – trying with all his might and finally succeeding in pulling himself together. Captain James T. Kirk was exhausted, physically, emotionally and intellectually - but, _damn_ it, it could _wait_.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_ – come in."

"Captain! Are ye all right?"

Scotty – good old _Scotty_. Never had he been so relieved to hear that burr…

"What about the ship?"

"The heat rays have gone, Captain – and Mr Sulu's back to normal."

"Excellent, Scotty. Stand by to beam up landing party." And he'd do it himself, if Jim knew him.

Almost automatically there began the trek back to the cell in which the others were being held – the others who were now free of the so-called 'Body'…and hell, no one knew what effects they'd suffer, did they? Landru withdrawal – gosh, he was morbid.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_."

"Sulu here, Captain."

Well then, he _did_ know Scotty… if only for a moment, Jim smiled to himself.

"Sulu." Matter-of-fact and understanding at once. "Have a medical team ready to check out the crewmembers who were absorbed – _including_ yourself."

"Aye, sir," came the quiet reply, then an equally quiet "there were others, then?"

He replied as gently. "Yes; we found O'Neill…then Leslie, Galloway, Lindstrom…and Doctor McCoy," he added with an emotional flinch he dearly hoped hadn't been audible. Bones, he'd had to knock Bones out to facilitate their escape – and aside from the fact that they were best friends, there was something so _wrong_ about committing an act of violence against a…well, a peace-loving professional _gentleman_ like _Bones_. "One may smile, and smile, and be a villain," he found himself saying, "and a mindless villain is all the more terrifying…Thank you, Sulu; Kirk out."

He would have to make that up to poor Bones later – with Bones himself sounding more Southern than ever in his embarrassment, and Spock standing at his shoulder pointedly _not_ telling him how illogical it was to apologize for what, at the time, had simply been _necessary_ –

"Captain," prodded the said Vulcan.

They'd reached the door that was their destination; how long had Spock waited before telling him so? Shaking the thought off, he barged unceremoniously through to the cell, where a very shaky doctor – _not_ a guinea pig – tried to get to his feet, and promptly staggered into the captain's arms.

McCoy was shivering, evidently trying not to show it, and Jim rubbed his back gently until he calmed down.

"It's over, Bones," he said finally, the unsaid _I'm sorry_ swelling in his tone.

"Oh," the physician grumped – reasonably spiritedly, thank goodness! – "so it's over, is it? Well, the last thing _I_ remember is that blasted _fairy_ in a sparkly _bedsheet – _"

_Amnesia_, for _one. _But perhaps it's better that way.

"Bones. It is over; you were…absorbed. They knocked us all out with a hypersonic, then carted you off to – "

"Jim," said McCoy softly, in a tone that most had come to realize meant danger. And also that the addressee would soon begin to feel like he had been caught with his hand in the cosmic cookie jar.

"Bones?" said Jim, already feeling it.

"They knocked. Us out. With a hypersonic."

"…Yes, Bones, what's the matter?"

"Dammit, Jim!" exploded the doctor, shooting up in a period-costumed blaze of indignation. "They knocked us out with a _hypersonic, _and I'll bet _you_ fought to stay conscious longer than even _that green-blooded endurance machine_ right there."

The green-blooded endurance machine's right eyebrow nearly lost itself in his hair, but apart from the now weakly grinning captain, no one noticed.

"Bones, I'm fine, it's all of _you_ I'm worried about."

"Shut up, Jim," declared Bones majestically. "And get Scotty to beam us up at once so I can give you something for that headache."

Jim shook his head and did just that.

What was it he'd said to Sulu – _one may smile, and smile, and be a villain_? The helmsman would probably act that out later to that sci/nav whizkid whatshisname Chekov – and while they would giggle together to high heaven about the Captain's whimsy, both would understand the truth behind his words.

There was a reason Jim Kirk had the best crew in Starfleet – and, he realized, a reason that crew had him.

* * *

**A/N:** _My tables—meet it is I set it down_  
_ That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain— (Hamlet _act I, scene V_)  
_


	2. Chapter 2: Scotty and Uhura

**Rating:** T

**Word count: **812 (this chapter)

**Warnings:** none…

**Pairings:** Scotty/Uhura (this chapter). Because.

**Summary: **Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on his crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek because STAR TREK OWNS EVERYTHING. (Did I ever mention my puns are kinda lame?)

**A/N:** Set sometime after _A Taste of Armageddon_, maybe before _Space Seed_.

* * *

A normal day at work. A delightful holo-message from home.

An evening rendezvous on the deserted – by chance? – observation deck.

She knew that the no-fraternization rules were inviolable, and kept – by none, incidentally, so rigorously as the captain – inviolate; tonight, Nyota let herself dare to hope.

He came to her out of the shadows – dressed, like her, in evening wear – and offered her his arm; they walked together to a secluded corner of the deck, where among the sofas he had somehow managed to install a table.

"Miss Uhura," he breathed, offering her a delicate, delightfully cold glass.

"We _are_ off duty, Scotty," she said slightly reproachfully, taking it.

"Nyota," he said, his Scottish accent sending a gentle thrill through her – as if this was how it had always been meant to be; as though something had just slid softly into place.

She sipped the drink; it was chilled coffee – smooth, creamy, dark and sublime, and she closed her eyes in bliss.

"Ah'm sorry," said Scotty ruefully over her rapture, "that ah couldnae lace that with a wee bitta brandy."

Nyota found herself giggling. "Oh, Scotty. The captain knows all about your 'secret' still down in engineering, and so does everyone else – you can be sure of that."

"Aye, lassie – but on the observation deck!"

She sipped again and sighed.

"Be that as it may, Scotty – this coffee is the best I've had since our last shore leave on Earth. It's a rare pleasure, to indulge oneself in a brew made with the real Arabica."

He smiled, shy but genuine. "Ah'm glad ye like it, Nyota."

Neither quite knew how they'd realized it, but it was then that both became suddenly aware of the presence on the deck of someone else.

The chief engineer opposite her leaped up in a blend of bewilderment and fury; he was stilled by the emergence of a silhouette out of the dark.

A statuesque silhouette. A chiseled profile. A regal charm in the controlled stride.

Golden hair.

Golden eyes.

"Captain."

* * *

He walked forward to greet them, a gentle smile playing about his lips.

"Lieutenant," he said in a tone that was rich and deep and _fond;_ "Commander," he added, and neither felt they had ever been more loved.

"Have we no wine here?" continued the captain in a voice that remained fond, but now contrived as well to imply jest – and as though by conjury a little crystal bottle appeared on the table between them. "Really, Scott – did you _really_ think I'd look askance at a snifter or two among responsible people? I didn't realize I had that sort of Captain-Big-Fearsome-Brown-Bear image."

"No, sir – _golden,_" ventured Nyota, and was rewarded with a radiant smile that made him appear truly so.

"And," he went on, inclining his head to her, "on such an occasion as this, no one with any decency could have the heart to object."

Did he _know? _Well, he was Captain Kirk – of course he knew; he made it a _point_ to know.

"Happy birthday, Miss Uhura," said James Kirk, lifting and touching his lips to her hand. "To not only the best communications officer in the fleet, but a fine, strong and true lady."

She had barely managed to thank him before he simply vanished.

For a moment she thought of calling him the Cheshire Captain, because from wherever it was he withdrew, he always left a trace of his smile.

* * *

Later that night, much later – after Scotty had shyly given her a beautiful pair of earrings and proceeded equally shyly to escort her to her quarters – Nyota found herself wandering in engineering, feeling the surging, rushing power of the Enterprise's engines through her pristine walls. She, the Enterprise, was what kept Scotty going – and, of course, Scotty was what kept the Enterprise going. Scotty truly loved the ship, but curiously enough it was not amorously that he treated her. Nay, he was simply content to adore her, to be responsible for her upkeep, to fight for her as a knight for a queen, wear her colours and bask in her splendour –

As though he knew – as Nyota knew as she rounded a bulkhead to behold a huddled golden form in a corner – that the Lady's passion was reserved for, and returned in full, burning measure by, someone else.

The captain was awake, his head resting wearily against the wall; but his eyes were focused at a distance unknown, and he did not see her. For the first time she saw far beyond his smiling, comforting exterior; to her, he suddenly looked small and vulnerable and wise beyond his years, and she longed to fetch a fleece blanket and tuck it around his shoulders.

When was Jim Kirk's birthday? Nyota didn't know – but she knew as surely as she saw him curled there that he would, and would continue to, spend it alone.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh Jim. *cuddles him and covers him with fleece blanket*  
Also, COFFEE. Yes, I find it hot – hotter than wine. Weird, I know.  
Also, shy!Scotty ftw.  
Also, CHESHIRE CAPTAIN HEEEEEEE. :D

* * *

_By Jupiter! forgot.  
I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.  
Have we no wine here? – _(_Coriolanus_ Act I, Scene IX)


	3. Chapter 3: McCoy

**Rating:** T

**Word count: **2,685 (this chapter. Also, _whoa_.)

**Warnings:** shameless h/c, random POV switches, some language (though nothing the characters wouldn't actually say), some spoilers (which I didn't want to mark in the text, so I've just noted them at the end.)

**Pairings:** none

**Disclaimer: ***points at curled-up golden bundle on floor* I want to keep this one a long time. He's pretty.**  
**

**Summary: **Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on his crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him.**  
**

**General A/N:** Look at me. I am updating. *facepalm*  
I AM SO SORRY. I am weird. RL is weird. Generally. I'm so sorry for not replying to your awesome reviews; thanks so much for reviewing and for adding this story to your alerts and/or favourites – and please don't stop! I'm going to clear my backlog soon. :D  
So yeah, I've gone and finished this chapter after almost a year. You won't have very long to wait for the rest, promise! I'm typing chapter four now, in fact.

**Specific A/N:** Guess every TOS fanwriter worth his or her salt has a go at this sometime; here's my take. (Also FFnet is messing with my formatting...anyway, things should be clearer now. *sigh*)  
Set between _Amok Time _and _The Doomsday Machine_.

* * *

The computer brought the lights up in its customary announcement of ship's daybreak, and a muffled groan sounded from somewhere among the blankets.

"_Off_," said a voice firmly.

They went off.

Jim groaned again and pressed his hands to his temples, grateful beyond belief for the privacy afforded by the captain's cabin. Concentrating on breathing through the pain, he tried – unsuccessfully – not to curse his luck. The Vulcan Affair, as he had taken to calling it to himself, had ended in general relief and renewed strength in the bonds between what he'd heard someone refer to as The Triumvirate, and he'd begun to hope he might have got out of it _without_ one of these.

Apparently not.

Damn it all to _hell_.

Replicator coffee, he supposed; no way was he going to take one of those red pills Bones insisted wouldn't knock him out…

No, he'd just steel himself and work through his (immensely boring; they'd been tucked neatly away in cartography since the Vulcan Affair) shift. Nothing he hadn't done several times before. Shouldn't be difficult.

-o-

It was.

He kept up the requisite front for the crew, of course; sitting in the captain's chair, legs crossed at the knee, with the ease that always made him appear couchant and rampant at the same time – appearing, today, perfectly relaxed, when in reality he was anything but.

The hours inched past in a blurry aeon of blinding light and disjoint sound, his mind automatically selecting those addressed to him and formulating the appropriate replies; _never_ in his year and a half as Captain had he been so glad when a shift neared its end.

He managed somehow to give Spock command and exit the bridge with his usual assurance, but the moment the doors slid shut behind him his grip on the handle tightened, and he leant his pounding head against the cool turbolift wall. Had he really spent those six hours without breaking even once? He didn't even remember the first thing anyone had said.

Jim blacked out completely when he reached his quarters and jerked awake barely in time for his shift the next morning, feeling as though he hadn't slept at all.

* * *

The pounding in Jim's head worsened until it was almost too much to bear, but being the Captain that he was, he soldiered on (and did not inwardly giggle at the dreadful pun, not at all.) Alpha shift passed in excruciating pain, but without event – except that he had to refuse Spock's offer of a chess game that evening.

He would have cited the mountain of paperwork he had to complete, but if he did poor Spock was bound to feel guilty about the events that necessitated it. As it was, he let it stand, and Spock – bless his Vulcan heart – said nothing. With luck he would figure out it was only a migraine, and not rat him out to McCoy.

-o-

Jim woke up halfway through ship's night to the realization that he was shivering with cold.

Well damn – he rasped a command to raise the ambient temperature – trust him to go and end up with some sort of bug on top of the migraine to end all migraines. Kirkian luck had its downfalls, World.

* * *

Jim spent his shift – and a couple of extra hours so Bones wouldn't get suspicious – in skillfully concealed but abject misery. He was cold in spite of an extra undershirt, and every suppressed shiver made his head throb worse; he ended up sitting with his head bent, ostensibly studying a PADD to avoid having to confront the blinding lights of the Bridge.

It was the first time in a while he had actually considered a voluntary visit to Sickbay.

Finally he managed to shake himself a bit while stepping off the bridge. Hell, if Captain Kirk could stare down such menacing uglies – ugly menaces – whatever – as Trelane, Squire of Gothos, then surely he could survive an attack of the flu…

-o-

He slept fitfully, but the headache never really eased; it was then that the door signal buzzed. Barely did he register Spock's voice saying "May I come in, Captain?"…but he did.

"Spock." His voice sounded dreadful, pitched far too low to be normal, but he managed to drag his features into some semblance of equanimity and stumble over to the door. "C'min."

"I merely came to offer you this, Captain."

Offer?…Offer what? Spock was standing in the doorway, blessedly blocking some of the light that stabbed through his eyes, and he was holding –

"Spock – s'that _coffee_?"

"Affirmative, Captain. It does happen to be that particular Earth beverage – and it is unreplicated."

Vulcan sounded smug. 'Smug, Captain?' Jim could hear him say, and he would have snickered if the man hadn't been holding a cup of _coffee_.

"Spock, you're an _angel_."

"That is manifestly illogical, Captain, as I do not possess what is, I believe, termed a 'halo'."

"You do play a harp, though, Spock. Don't lie t'me, I've seen it."

A slight huff of not-amused-exasperation-because-that-is-two-emotions-in-one. "As you wish, Captain."

Jim snuggled back into bed, grinning like an idiot through the haze of pain, and was it his imagination or did the blessed 'Earth beverage' actually make him feel a bit better?

* * *

James T. Kirk was no stranger to dreams.

Dreams in childish cubbyholes of tigers and sunshine, dreams in rust-filled scrapyards of sorcery and steel; dreams in Iowa cornfields of warp cores and stars – the story of Jim's life, though it never would, could be told in dreams alone.

Dreams of worthy officers struck down by enemy fire. Dreams of friends turning, friends crushed and buried at his own hands. Dreams of traffic accidents, of gentle hands and _Jim, sweetheart_ and blood and destruction and famine and _death_ –

And then he was awake, half out from under the covers, sweating and shivering and gasping for breath – and yes, of course, you have a fever, Jim, and what did you expect to dream of with a headache like this anyway?

Well – never mind. He did feel slightly better, and a shower would clear his head before delta shift…delicious, delicious delta shift with its low lighting and glorious silence. Jim had always had a sneaking fondness for delta shift; catlike, he loved to prowl at night, and there was no place save engineering where he felt as secure as on the Bridge. Besides, if M'Ress and the rest of the regular delta crew ever noticed their captain engrossed in a PADDbook while on duty – well, beyond the occasional exchange of knowing winks, nothing was ever said.

There was to be no reading that night. For all his effort Jim could barely focus on the words, let alone get them through his head, and he settled for revelling silently in the quiet of the darkened Bridge.

Which was suddenly shattered two hours into the shift by a hassled Admiral Archer with a request – alarm bells sounded loud and clear in the captain's mind – for a patient hearing.

-o-

The Ambitus system, in the sector they were mapping, had one inhabitable planet populated by a humanoid race – quite primitive, agricultural society, peaceful existence, steer clear – which the Enterprise would have been perfectly happy to do.

Except that six months before, a Klingon ship had made contact. Asked, apparently, and received, permission for shore leave. Whereupon they had, in Archer's phrase, 'got cozy' with the natives – and struck up a trade agreement for their grain.

Grain which, as recently reported by a covert scout ship, was now silently leaching into Federation markets as the most potent human hallucinogen ever known.

It was a trade even Harcourt Mudd wouldn't touch.

Diplomatic – or, if it came to that, military – intervention was imperative, and the Enterprise was the only Constitution-class vessel in the sector; a course was set for Ambitus at once.

* * *

In Leonard McCoy's opinion, the only assignment worse than mapping was diplomacy.

Sure he appreciated the requirement for a starship in a situation like this – sure he knew that Jim's compelling combination of logic and sheer force of will could win him, if not hearts, then certainly minds. Sure Jim was known, and for good reason, as the most capable diplomat in the Fleet, but he was a soldier first – a commander first, and anyone who couldn't figure that out was pretty much an imbecile.

Besides, Ambitus was chilly – and cold had never been kind to Jim. Despite several layers of clothing, he'd been controlling his shivers with an effort ever since they'd beamed down.

The Ambitans' argument was money, money, money; the Klingons' innocence, innocence, innocence. As one of the captain's beloved old Earth authors had said, reason could be fought with reason; how were they going to fight the unreasonable? Stout denial, after all, was a tried and true tactic ("and I should know, Bones," Jim said with a wan smile, "I've used it.") All in all it took four hours to get Klingon Captain Koloth to bend; four hours before Uhura moved her stylus from its position over the Code One signal with a sigh of relief – four hours which the captain, to the shared concern of the landing party and _completely _logical alarm of the Vulcan, spent visibly struggling to stay calm.

And it was that which set McCoy's radar off. Jim almost shivering while Spock was fine. Jim of the almost-Vulcanlike poker face _struggling_ not to raise his voice. Jim looking – Jim looking utterly _exhausted_, now that he noticed it – and Spock looking _worried_. As though he _knew_ something was wrong.

Damn Vulcan.

He'd set a bioalert for the captain's quarters that night, just in case.

* * *

The cold should have let up once he was back on board, but it didn't seem to want to. Unable to bring himself to remove any of the layers he wore, he curled up in bed, boots and all – whispered a command to the computer, and dropped with the room into blackness and silence.

Not for long, though. Never for long.

Visions accompanied him – accosted him. Smothered him. Deaths that had occurred on his watch – deaths that could occur, could _have_ occurred on his watch. Sandy hair and powerful hands and features that could have been his own, grounding him gently when his head hurt worst. Eager young ensigns, lieutenants in love – grey-green eyes and carillon voice and things they had never looked or said.

Feverish phosphenes and blinding pain – pain that almost drove him to the point of retching, and he found himself staggering to his feet in search of who knew what, only to lose his footing and be dragged down again.

He lay there motionless, trying to catch his breath through the pain, pressing his burning head and palms to the floor, willing it to swallow him whole, willing the gentle purr of the Enterprise's engines either to make it better or lull him into oblivion.

-o-

"Lights," barked a peremptory Georgia voice, and he could barely stifle a moan at the explosion of pain in his head, then swallowed convulsively against the nausea.

"Lights fifty percent. …_Damnit_, Jim," said the same voice gently, and a cool hand splayed at his temple – _how_in the hell could that hand feel cool when he was so damn cold already? – only to brush through his hair, then whip out something that whirred like – like – those diagnostic things hands like that were wont to whip out. "What in blue blazes have you been doing to yourself _now_?"

"It would seem for once, Doctor, that the captain's condition is not his own fault."

Spock, that had to be Spock – good ol' Spock who _still_ thought he could hide his concern behind a mask of Logic and Duty –

"Shut up, Spock…The _captain_ and his goddamn obstinacy – !" The CMO was almost yelling, but a quiet cough from the floor brought him to his senses. "Jim?"

Barely-seeing hazel eyes blinked up at the doctor, pain-glazed, fever-bright.

"Bones," murmured the captain faintly, eyes falling shut, "canst thou not…minister…to a mind diseased?"

-o-

As soon as the feverish golden head had been transferred from a blue-clad collarbone to a soft Sickbay pillow, the captain was surrounded by a frenzy of medical activity. It was hours before the word got out: Vegan choriomeningitis, contractable through blood. Jim's only recent injury had been on Vulcan, and his active immune system would have made short work of the virus – had it not been for the neural paralyzer that had, at the time, let him live.

Spock, though banished several times, stood rooted to the spot until, several hours later, the captain was declared out of danger.

"It was a close call, Spock," McCoy finally managed, trying not to snap or giggle with relief.

"Is he still in pain, Doctor." It sounded like a statement – and of course, the damn green-blooded touch-telepath had carried Jim to sickbay.

"He will be for a while, Spock," and yes, he was capable of being gentle with Vulcans, thank you very much, "but he should recover quickly now – he's Jim, after all. _Now_ shoo."

* * *

Apparently even an unconscious Jim Kirk was the centre of the universe.

The blackmailing puppy-eyed First Officer, for instance, was down in the recovery room whenever his 'presence was not required' on the Bridge, choosing to complete his paperwork while sitting by the Captain's side. Uhura and Sulu dropped by to leave him flowers from botany lab six. Chekov somehow got hold of a sandy-furred teddy bear, dressed it in command gold and tried unsuccessfully to prevent a hysterically laughing CMO from noticing it. M'Ress tried not to look guilty when caught gently stroking the errant lock of hair back from his forehead. Scotty preferred to talk softly and incessantly of the engines and the wiring and the ship and the crew, and of how much they missed their 'little golden dynamo'. And Chapel, with the unerring perception of character that made her the invaluable Head Nurse she was, spent hours simply holding the captain's hand as he slept.

It was just as well none of that was happening when he woke.

-o-

"That," announced a familiar voice, directed at Chapel's medical equipment, "is a _tricorder_."

Which the nurse promptly dropped in fright, then apologized profusely to both the Captain, who had flinched, and the CMO, who had barged into the room demanding to know just _who_ and _what_ thought it could get away with making that racket in his Sickbay.

"Bones!" said the patient delightedly, tried to sit up, and was stopped by a grumpy blue blur which promptly hugged him instead.

"_Never_ do that again, y'unspeakable dimwit."

" – _Bones_."

"If you want to know what happened, Jim, you're just going to have to – ask Chapel," finished the doctor, and disappeared in high dudgeon.

"Claws and teeth," mused the captain, "and tears. Ms Chapel, if you'd be so kind, what happened and where's Spock?"

And even Nurse Chapel couldn't bring herself to be too hard on the man – particularly as he found Chekov's teddy bear at some point during her narrative and pounced on it in dishevelled-kitten glee.

-o-

True to form, Jim's recovery was rapid after that. Though – also true to form – he was loath to admit it, a few days off duty did him worlds of good – as it did the crew to see him strolling along the corridors, blissfully absorbing the healing energy he and Scotty both claimed the Enterprise possessed. For a while he was as often to be found reading quietly in a Jefferies tube as laughing hysterically over the tale of how Spock had scooped him up ('S'at you, Spock? I'm not a bride, Spock.') to carry him to Sickbay, as likely in the botany lab sniffing the Earth flowers as curled rapturously in a corner of the observation deck.

And yet the engines of their mighty ship didn't seem to purr with quite the same resonance – not until the last piece of the jigsaw clicked satisfyingly into place. Not, that is, until the day the opening of the turbolift doors was greeted with a perfectly level, not-lilting-_at-all_ voice from the science station:

_"Captain on the bridge."_

* * *

**A/N: **Apparently I am cheesiness incarnate. I do beg your pardon for the unscheduled Kirk/Enterprise schmoop at the end. :P  
• Specific but extremely vague spoilers (all in Jim's fever dreams): _Where No Man Has Gone Before_, _City on the Edge of Forever_, _The Conscience of the King_, _Operation – Annihilate!_, _Balance of Terror_.  
• Klingon Captain Koloth appears in _The Trouble With Tribbles_, where it's made quite clear that he and Kirk have had…not entirely cordial dealings before.  
• I have so much headcanon for Sam and Jim. Samuel and James. _James Tiberius and George Samuel!_ Little golden boys. :')  
• I love M'Ress _so much_.  
• I am suddenly seized with the desire to tell the story of Jim Kirk's life in dreams.

_• Reason can be fought with reason. How are you going to fight the unreasonable? _- Ayn Rand, _The Fountainhead_

* * *

_Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,  
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
Raze out the written troubles of the brain – __(Macbeth _act V, scene III_)_


	4. Chapter 4: Chapel

**Rating:** T

**Word count: **890 (this chapter)

**Warnings:** crack. Crack crack crack.

**Pairings:** none

**Disclaimer:** "Own us? _Own_ us? Are you outta your mind? I don't know what rights she thinks she may have to _certain starship captains_, but _own_ us, my sainted aunt!"  
"I was not aware, Doctor, that you had such a relative."  
"_Mind your own Vulcan business_, Sp – "  
"Gentlemen, gen-tle-men."

**Summary: **Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on his crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him.

**A/N:** Inspired by a wonderful piece of art by *lamamama on deviantART: visit her Trek gallery and you're sure to know which picture I'm referring to. XD  
Set sometime after _The Immunity Syndrome_.

* * *

Marjari VII was a lush green jungle of a planet; though definitely Class M, it had a climate rather too…equatorial for comfort. (Much to everyone's relief, though, there were no insects but for a lazily flapping butterfly-like species – else the vectors among them, said the Doctor with vehemence, would have been sure to make straight for Jim.) It suited the Marjaris, however, for they had whiskers, pointy flexible ears positioned at the top of their heads, and a light dusting of fur.

In fact, though humanoid, they happened to bear a distinct resemblance to the Earth species _Felis catus._

Everything made sense in view of their physiology – the warm climate, the abundance of birdlike and rodentlike creatures, even – for heaven's _sake!_ McCoy snorted to her – those _butterflies_ to chase. Marvellous – she'd say they were hedonistic if they weren't so lazy.

Anyhow, here they were, and here they would stay until they'd finished distributing the vaccine against Tellurian measles – well, she and Dr McCoy would, anyway; the rest – the entire bridge crew and Scotty, who'd been talking to the captain about the engines needing maintenance before the planet's leader made contact – had been invited to some sort of semi-formal get-together as a gesture of goodwill.

And just when it had been getting good – outlandish cocktails, conversation, a lot of the furry ladies in the room making eyes at Kirk, some at Spock and even one petite lavender specimen at Dr McCoy – the captain had to go and have an allergic reaction to a drink. Not a very dramatic allergic reaction, as the captain's went – none of the Enterprise medical staff would forget the aftermath of the Omicron Ceti III spores in a hurry – but an allergic reaction nonetheless.

"I'm…fine, Bones," said the man in question, wheezing slightly but perceptibly.

"Jim," said the CMO, "I'm a doctor, not a patience player. You are going to beam back up to the ship right this very moment. And since I, as your CMO, have a _job_ to do here, I shall let Christine have the pleasure of hypospraying you."

"Bones."

"And if you make a fuss, Jim," continued the doctor, bouncing on his heels, "she has my express permission to sedate you and have the transporter crew _drag_ you down to Sickbay."

Christine wasn't particularly glad to leave, but the cowed look on the captain's face made it entirely worth it.

* * *

"Nurse Chapel," whispered a borderline frantic Lieutenant Kyle two hours later, "you won't believe what's going on."

She didn't.

Not until, after a frazzled fifteen minutes, she found herself taking the turbolift to the Bridge with an armful of scruffy brown Himalayan cat.

* * *

The captain swivelled in his chair to greet her – a captain half harried, half hysterically amused.

On the arm of the command chair, paws tucked neatly and delicately under chest, sat a slender, glossy, pointy-eared black cat. At the helm was a resigned-looking black-spotted specimen, while a ridiculously adorable brown Munchkin washed his tiny paws at the navigator's post. A glorious deep chocolate Somali curled her tail around herself at the communications console, and a very worried Scottish Fold, draped across the other arm of the Chair, pawed the captain every few minutes in the sleeve.

"Mischief, thou art afoot," said Kirk with a half-amused sigh. "Ms Chapel?" he added, eyeing her bundle.

"The doctor, sir," she said apologetically, surrendering her armful of cat to her suddenly very gleeful commanding officer. "I'm afraid he keeps stalking into Sickbay and hissing at the nurses."

"Why, _Bones_," said the captain, grinning delightedly at the new arrival, who fixed him at once with a baleful blue-eyed glare, "you're _beautiful_."

The brown cat put out his claws and waved them grumpily in Kirk's face, and the Fold pawed him in the arm.

"Yes, Scotty, I know."

"Is that – " said Christine, breaking off.

"Mr Scott, yes," said Kirk, "he's still talking about his bairns. Leave Bones with me," he added, absently rubbing a purring Spock behind the ears, "he can't make much more trouble here than in Sickbay, I'm sure."

* * *

It turned out the cause of the transformations was a virus present in the Marjari atmosphere; its effect had been exacerbated by the use of the transporter. Dr M'Benga and the nurses managed to find a cure, and with time and hyposprays the affected crew returned to normal.

It was curious, though, that the captain and head nurse had managed to stay unaffected. Perhaps it was because of the fact that they hadn't been on the planet as long as the rest, but _logically_, as the Vulcan reminded the Doctor (or was it the other way round?), they shouldn't have been exempt…

And so when Nurse Chapel mysteriously disappeared and someone noted that Spock had found himself being followed by a dainty little white-socked cat with pale gold spots, Dr McCoy's first reaction was to drop everything and rush to the Bridge in unholy glee.

Never was a holopic sent from PADD to PADD as fast as that of a certain golden hazel-eyed tabby lounging lazily in the captain's chair.

The image that remained stamped in the minds of the CMO and bridge crew, however, was that of said tabby being firmly picked up by an about-to-assume-command Vulcan, promptly breaking into a fusillade of purrs and settling contentedly into said (completely bewildered) Vulcan's arms.

* * *

**A/N: **Marjari, pronounced _maarjaaree, _is Sanskrit for cat. /geekery  
Also, does anyone else want to cuddle a Captain Tabby? XD  
Also, in my headcanon, Kirk has asthma. It's mild and usually kept well under control, but it surfaces at inopportune times (like after the spores in This Side of Paradise).

* * *

_Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot.  
Take thou what course thou wilt!_ _(Julius Caesar _act III, scene II_)_


	5. Chapter 5: Spock

**Title: **This Above All (Chapter 5: Spock)

**Rating:** T

**Word count: **788 (this chapter)

**Warnings:** vague spoilers for _The Enterprise Incident_, a slightly, slightly off-balance Spock

**Pairings:** none

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek…but that's not a no-win scenario, now is it?

**Summary: **Five times Jim Kirk went all Shakespeare on his crew, and one time they went all Shakespeare back on him.

**A/N:** Set the ship's night before _The Enterprise Incident_.

* * *

James Kirk paced the length of his quarters, up and down, restlessly, ceaselessly, a golden lion trapped in a cage.

Spock watched.

Spock watched with impassive features, even as within him welled a tumult of emotions and desires – emotions and desires he would have preferred to analyze, compartmentalize and control, were it not for the fact that the very presence of Jim Kirk – most illogically – put paid to any effort in that direction.

Jim was in a state of disquiet. Spock knew that – had known it before he was granted permission to enter, before it caused their chess game to be abandoned due to a lack of concentration on the part – illogical to deny it – of both players. Spock knew, and therefore remained in the captain's quarters in silent support – and, yes – empathy.

The plan was brilliant – as all Jim Kirk's were, even those cobbled together from sulphur and diamond. Audacious and perilous and the only hope they had – and the captain, like himself, deplored the mission that demanded it.

They were three weeks into that mission. Three weeks of winch-taut, coiled-spring stringency, of curt orders and whiplash reprimands – almost three entire weeks without that golden, radiant smile. The act had gathered momentum as the days wore on and become less and less of one, for all Jim had had to do was channel the irritation he did feel. It was no wonder that the Doctor insisted, in his idiosyncratic turn of phrase, that one could _cut the atmosphere on the Bridge with a knife_; the crew sensed beneath the captain's peremptory exterior the venom they had no way of knowing was not directed at them.

Insanity, with its many forms and iterations, was by its very nature the surest defence in the Federation; within or without the confines of the latter, it was invariably treated with the utmost caution. Each species by virtue of genetic constitution tended towards a variety of imbalance; certain individuals merely – so to speak – took the plunge. Jim Kirk was of those who paced the fine line between genius and madness, and paced it with aplomb.

Since the mission briefing one thought had been foremost on the captain's mind – had rolled off it in waves: _they must not know. _The deniability, the safety of his crew took precedence for him above all else, and above and beyond the call of duty, Spock had come to share that conviction. Wordless apologies had passed between them for the involvement of each in what the other desired no part in; equally wordlessly, they stood united in their resolve.

_The success of any trap, _Jim had said to Admiral Stone the night of the briefing, _lies in its fundamental simplicity. The reverse trap by nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still._

_Military secrets, _he had said to Spock later with truth and bitterness in his tone, _are the most fleeting of all._

The restlessness of the man was building to a crescendo. No doubt it would peak in the early hours of ship's dawn, then gradually fade in cadence with the smooth progression of his plan. No doubt he was going over that very stratagem with what humans referred to as a _fine-toothed comb_, confirming and reconfirming that possibility after possibility was accounted for. No doubt the bowstring tension in every fibre of his being was testament not only to his strength but to his restraint.

And yet, if the Vulcan were honest with himself – and that was, after all, the Vulcan way –

Was it not his own insecurity that led him to remain?

Had he not proposed the chess game in order to steady himself in the constancy of Jim? Had he not gravitated here in the _hope_ – if ever so slight – of finding strength in the captain's own? And was he not afraid – illogically afraid – of failing the very man whose solace he sought?

And did not Jim Kirk – perceptive Jim of the gentle smile, of the countless fadeless ways to put a Vulcan at his ease aboard a Starfleet ship – did not Captain Kirk know exactly what had drawn his First Officer in tonight like the proverbial moth to the lamp?

– And of course he did, for the pacing had ceased, and as Spock watched the sunshine drew hesitantly closer. Gently the human – always careful not to instigate skin-to-skin contact – took hold of the Vulcan's upper arms, and Spock caught fleeting, well-worn threads of _over soon _and _get some rest _and the faintest trace of _you wax lyrical, Captain _before, for the first time in hours, looking steadfastly into the eyes of his First, Jim spoke aloud.

"Spock," he said, "only look up clear. To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me."

* * *

**A/N: **

• I'm aware that Spock doesn't sound _quite_ his usual self here, but bear in mind that these are unusual circumstances even for the Enterprise, and both Captain and First have been under great strain.  
• Spock's _Military secrets are the most fleeting of all_ to the Romulan Commander sounded to me as though it were meant as a quote – so he could either have been quoting an author from our future…or Jim. I took the latter route. :P

• I should probably curb my tendency to slip bonus quotes into things, but since I have more leeway on that front in fanfic than original work:  
_The success of any trap lies in its fundamental simplicity. The reverse trap by nature of its single complication must be swift and simpler still. - _Robert Ludlum, _The Bourne Identity  
You wax lyrical, Captain. _- Alistair MacLean, _Where Eagles Dare_  
Both of which my headcanon-Jim has read, naturally. _The Bourne Identity _is my favourite book of all time, and no kidding, '60s-era Shatner would have made _the_ perfect Jason Bourne. Also if anyone has read _Where Eagles Dare_, the Smith-Schaffer relationship in the book is pretty much exactly how I see Kirk and Scotty. Also I'm not considering the film of either of the books.

• I didn't intend to repeat a play at first, but Macbeth was just too delicious to pass up. Sorry. =D

* * *

_Only look up clear.  
To alter favour ever is to fear.  
Leave all the rest to me._ _(Macbeth _act I, scene V_)_


End file.
